Saffron perched on the edge of the counter nearby, nursing a cooling mug of coffee.She liked this hour—the parlor alive with small sounds, Ursula in her element, the city outside still half asleep.But beneath the familiar rhythm, something in her blood stirred uneasily.Her cat was restless, pacing inside her ribs.Her mismatched eyes tracked the window where sunlight slanted through, fractured by the shifting wards woven into the building.
The knock came then, rattling the front door’s glass with a dull, resonant thud.
The client flinched, his shoulders jerking beneath Ursula’s hand.A curse slipped through his teeth.Ursula didn’t so much as blink.She lifted the needle, set it aside with care, and blotted the man’s inked skin with practiced precision.Only then did she look up, her gaze cutting to Saffron.
“You feel that?”Ursula’s voice was even, but the edge beneath it was steel.
Saffron set her mug down, rising slowly.Her skin prickled, wards whispering like teeth dragged over stone.“Like nails down my spine,” she admitted.The cat inside her was yowling, unsettled.
The knock came again, this time slower, deliberate.Arrogant.
The client shifted nervously, trying to crane his neck.“You want me to—”
“Stay where you are,” Ursula cut in, firm and unyielding.She dabbed his skin once more, though her hand was already curling, ready to summon flame.“Ink doesn’t wait for bad manners.”
Saffron crossed the room, steps light, shoulders squared.Her magic coiled under her skin, sharp and ready.She was halfway to the door when the protection wards she had placed over the entrance shivered and collapsed, and without invitation, it swung open.
A man stepped into the parlor like it was his own.
Tall, broad-shouldered, immaculate.His charcoal suit looked hand-cut, the black silk tie glinting faintly in the light.His hair was slicked back, his shoes polished to a mirror shine.But it wasn’t his clothing that stole the air—it was his presence.Heavy.Suffocating.Like oil pouring across water.Even the wards seemed to recoil.His smile was practiced, a perfect curve of white teeth, but his eyes—his eyes were cold glass over something older, darker.
The construction worker froze in Ursula’s chair, every muscle taut.Ursula straightened slowly, setting down her cloth.Saffron stopped just short of the counter, her chin tilting high.
“Good morning,” the man said smoothly, his gaze sweeping the parlor as though appraising an asset.When his eyes landed on Saffron, they lingered.“Adrian Veynar.Owner of this property as of last week, and your landlord.”
The silence stretched.The client growled audibly, obviously not a fan of entitled rich men.Saffron’s pulse thundered, her fingers curling at her sides.“This property doesn’t belong to you.”
He chuckled, low and cultured, before sliding a leather folder onto the counter with a snap.“The paperwork says otherwise.Effective immediately, you and your ...menagerie are trespassing.”
The folder pulsed faintly with power.The ink in the contracts shimmered, laced with wards, black magic woven into every line.Saffron’s gut twisted.She knew that taste.
“Council,” she hissed.
His smile sharpened.“At last, someone remembers.Yes, girl.I am what remains when time forgets to erase its mistakes.And you,” his gaze darkened, almost hungry, “you are in my way.”
Before she could move, he lifted his hand.Black fire lashed across the counter in a crackling arc.
The client yelped and nearly bolted from the chair.Saffron snapped her hand up, golden threads of light weaving into a shield that shimmered in the air.The blast slammed into it, rattling the walls until frames and sketches tumbled to the floor.Her arms shook, bones screaming with the force of holding it.
“Not in my shop,” Ursula snarled, stepping forward.Fire burst into her palms, her voice carrying the weight of a curse.
The back stairwell thundered.Willow flew into the room, Jacob and Liam right behind her.Isaac and Nolan came last, both men growling, eyes glowing, wolves prowling just beneath their skin.The scent of them—iron and storm, pine and clover—rushed through her, steadying her trembling bones.
“Who the fuck is this?”Nolan’s voice cracked like a whip.He stalked closer, every line of him coiled to strike.
Isaac moved silently to her side, his hand brushing her arm before he slid in front of her.Protective.Unyielding.“Stay back,” he ordered softly, though his eyes never left Veynar.
Veynar sneered, like he was watching children play at war.“More of you.How quaint.”His wrist flicked, magic sparking to life again.
This time, the coven was ready.Willow’s light blazed, Ursula’s fire roared, Brielle’s chaotic purple sparks ripped jagged through the air.One of them caught him squarely across the shoulder, and she laughed breathlessly, “Another direct hit for me, asshole!”
Veynar snarled back, “Little girl, your magic’s as undisciplined as your tongue,” even as he staggered.Their powers braided together into a barrier that shoved his darkness back.The air screamed, sharp with ozone and smoke.
Saffron’s fury broke loose.She snapped her will outward, golden fire slamming into his chest.His suit caught, silk and wool blistering in jagged streaks of flame.He cursed, staggering toward the open door, hands slapping at the fabric.
“You’ll regret this,” he spat, voice guttural now, veneer stripped away.“All of you.Be out in the next forty-eight hours, or I will have you forcibly removed!”
Then he vanished, smoke curling in his wake.
